by T. C. Edge
Still, he does suggest one thing, taking possession of my rifle and switching the mode to ‘immobilise’. It’s the same one he’s used regularly to kill the engines of cars and knock drones from the air.
“Takes less charge,” he says. “And it’s less conspicuous.”
I suppose I have plenty to learn. I barely even know how to handle a weapon.
The going, despite our abilities, is fairly slow. That’s through necessity rather than desire. We take a wide angle to the northwest, nearing the perimeter and its force of guards, before circling back around until we’re edging closer to one of the few entrances that hasn’t yet been discovered.
Our pace grows even slower the further towards the fighting we travel. Down long streets and over the tops of distant roofs, the flow of fire appears in the mist. And from the same directions, the clattering of gunfire echoes continuously, telling of the battle that rages on.
“Is it our men?” I ask. “Defending the tunnels?”
“Guerrilla tactics,” says Zander. “That’s the protocol in such situations.”
“Such situations? You mean, you thought a load of tunnels might be attacked at once?”
“We had plans in place for almost every eventuality. This one wasn’t considered that likely. We didn’t expect a coordinated assault like this.”
“And so…guerrilla tactics? That means?”
“It means we have to be clever,” he says, narrow eyes searching for our next route ahead. “They outnumber us by a large degree. The plan if any single tunnel was breached was to first blow the tunnel, then send some of our soldiers to the surface and attack the fringes as they tried to tunnel through the blockage. That would slow them and give our people time to mobilise and escape.”
“And now that several are being attacked?”
“It just means that our men will be more widely dispersed. They’ll still be running interference, and trying to slow Cromwell’s men down, but it won’t be as effective. He’ll break through sooner. And now, we have to try to spare some soldiers to escort the people away to the mines.”
“And…is that where I come in?” I ask.
He nods solemnly. In some ways, being part of the assault team to blow the High Tower would be safer. I know now just how dangerous it is out there…
“But not you, obviously,” I say. “They need you for the mission.”
“Unfortunately, our hand has been forced. We were hoping that we’d be able to get the job done before any evacuation was required. It’s weird. Cromwell’s played everything out so smoothly and slowly over the months and years. And now, after everything, it’s all coming down to this. Minutes count.”
“Then I won’t waste any more of them with questions,” I say.
On we go under the darkening skies. We have no choice but to creep close to the warzone, where the concentrations of our enemies are greatest, and the skies fill with the drones that act as lookouts.
On several more occasions, we’re forced to down a few, disabling them in flight as they whip past us from nowhere and get ready to give away our position.
Before they can, they hit the earth. One, then two, then three more come and go.
But it’s the fourth that does the damage.
We catch it a split second too late, the gunfire and explosions and song of war distracting us as the drone hovers quietly in the broken façade of a high window, it’s usually audible engine hidden by the ambient sounds of the rampaging city.
Zander’s rifle rises and cuts it down, but only after it’s issued out a warning to a nearby patrol that we were hoping to avoid.
My brother turns to me.
“We have to take them out,” he says. “We can’t be followed.”
They’re already close. I hear voices and footsteps stamping down the street. Behind us through a short alley, the battle for a tunnel is spilling out. We can’t go that way.
We have no option but to engage.
Zander snatches my rifle again, and flicks the setting. I watch and take note.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Tired?”
He’s inquiring about my Dasher powers. They’ve been used sparingly, and so I’m in good order.
I shake my head and steel my eyes. Mine and his are like reflections. Hazel, shining in the dim light, ready to do what we must.
“I feel strong,” I say.
We move straight to the end of the alley. Zander turns his eyes down the street, glancing out in the blink of an eye before withdrawing. It’s not enough for the patrol to see him. But it’s plenty for him to see them.
“Twelve,” he says. “Con-Cops.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. Twelve of anything else might be too much for me. City Guard, with a range of different Enhanced, would surely take me down. Stalkers would see to both of our ends.
I know we got lucky. We needed to get lucky.
“OK, sis,” says Zander. “They’re spreading, taking positions. Best we go now while they’re all together. Fire and displace. Use your Dasher powers and Hawk-eyes to aim. You ready?”
My lungs fill up with putrid air. I nod nervously.
“Then let’s go. On me. Three, two, one…”
He doesn’t give me a chance to overthink, something I’m prone to do. He forces me to act on instinct, a state in which I tend to excel. And as he surges down the alley and appears before the patrol, I follow right behind.
I’m greeted by a sight of identical men and women, separated only by height and frame, forced into this little battalion to battle their old brethren. I see behind the masks their eyes, all dead, showing little surprise and no fear at all.
Like robots, they too act without thinking. It’s not instinct, but merely the programming they’ve been given.
See enemy. Aim and shoot.
The order spreads through them all like wildfire, and as one their weapons lift.
But they’re not as fast as us.
Zander’s gun begins to blare and mine follows only a second later. We dash into the open street, sending blue fire their way.
They don’t take cover or try to shield themselves. They don’t act like a normal human might. They act as they’ve been conditioned to, programmed to, their minds wired to follow a specific course in any specific situation.
And here, right now, the orders are clear: kill as many as you can, even if you have to die. Don’t defend yourself in place of getting a shot off.
It’s bizarre to see. As the first couple go down, their chests burned through by sizzling energy, the others don’t run or try to hide. They don’t seek cover. They don’t look at their allies, dropping dead to their floor, their bodies mutilated.
They don’t fear death at all. They can do nothing but adhere to the terrible wiring in their brains.
So they stand, and return fire, their regular guns spitting out a swarm of bullets. And as they do, our guns fire again, and we displace, swishing out of sight and to the other side of the street.
Two more fall as we arrive. The remaining eight have no idea where we are. Only when they see the swirling mist fluttering in our wake, and follow it to our new location, do they begin firing once more.
The routine is repeated. As the bullets start to zip, appearing to slow as my Dasher powers vibrate and rumble, we fire back once again and displace.
This time, we appear behind them. Now there are only six.
We circle them for fun. It isn’t a challenge at all. Three more times we shoot and run, and each time they merely stand there and try to find us. By the time they do, their bodies have been cut through.
And in only a minute or so, the patrol of twelve Con-Cops lie is a sad heap of flesh in the earth.
And sad it is. I give little thought to it, given our current predicament, but can’t help but shake my head and grit my teeth at the futility of it all.
As far as I know, these men and women were only recently turned into these mindless creatures. Drawn in by Cromwell’s lies and prom
ises, seeking only to rid themselves of their fear and find some peace and solace in a world they fear.
They might have been husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. Normal people turned to nothing but canon fodder. Uncaringly twisted and emptied of all that they once were.
And looking at them, I realise that that’s exactly true. I didn’t kill them. We didn’t kill them. Cromwell did.
They were already dead.
15
Our encounter with the Con-Cops leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It’s the taste of unnecessary death. The taste of war.
Zander, having seen and done it all a hundred times over, keeps us moving. For another couple of nervy blocks we creep away from the nearest batch of fighting, and I play our own little battle out in my mind a couple more times.
And each time, an increasing numbness engulfs me. It won’t be long before I’m able to shoot down my enemies with no feeling at all.
I know that fighting the City Guard will, above all, be the hardest to reconcile. My conclusion about the Con-Cops already being dead is a favourable one for my psyche. And if ever I’m face to face with a Stalker, similarly detached and bred only to kill, I won’t think twice about pulling the trigger.
But the City Guard are different. They remain human, regular men and women for the most part, perhaps questioning their place among all of this. We have enough Enhanced within our own ranks to show that many aren’t exactly fond of Cromwell’s doctrines, and there are many others within Inner Haven right now who sympathise with our cause.
Yet, out here, war doesn’t judge. If I’m being attacked by a force of City Guards, I’m going to have to act accordingly.
It isn’t my choice to make, I tell myself. This is just war.
I say it again and again as we move through the city, rewiring my own brain, using my own powers as a Mind-Manipulator to shut off that sensitive, moral side of me, hide it somewhere in the background until all of this is over.
Because I can’t have any more slip-ups. I can’t take a moment to react when faced with the next threat. If I do, it could be my brother’s life, or someone else’s life at stake. And it will certainly be my own.
As we go, and I work to forge new pathways in my mind, I begin to step aboard the same train the Nameless are riding. I start to imagine that, with everything I’ve seen, and everything I’ve done, toppling the High Tower might just be the only course of action.
And the next time I see Beckett – if I ever see him again – I’ll drop my head in deference and apologise.
“You were right,” I’ll admit. “I was wrong.”
I need to toughen up.
The sky continues to blacken. All over the northern quarter now, with the onset of night adding to the gloom, the fires and flares and flashing weapons are more readily visible.
The entire city is like a lights show, the horizon a mesh of colour. For miles across the northern quarter the war has spread, moving even beyond the tunnels that command Cromwell’s attention.
Now, others appear to have joined: local people picking up arms, fighting for their homes; Disposables realising that they have a better chance of survival if they add themselves to the fray.
Scavenging for weapons, prising them from the lifeless fingers of the dead, the forgotten residents of this dark corner of the city are beginning to rise up.
But our path is beyond it.
Finally we manage to reach a rare passage known only to a few. Like all the others, it’s well concealed, hidden in the depths of an old building through a network of secret doors and passages that leads into the underground. Into the old subway that used to ferry the residents of an ancient city around below the surface.
We enter the underlands and block ourselves off from the war, and Zander tells me that only a handful of people have ever known of this exit.
A private passage intended for only the most secretive of business, it leads out beyond the city via a different route, not merging in with the main network of caves and caverns where the refugees live.
Knowing this, I allow myself the luxury of breathing regularly for the first time in a while.
We’re safe, for now. It won’t last long.
We walk for some time, moving straight to the north, the fighting above growing less distinct until it disappears completely. Only after we’re covered several miles does Zander tell me we’re about to go topside again.
And when we do, up we go, climbing a ladder cut into the side of the rock wall and emerging into the silent night in a little patch of woodland miles away from the city limits.
I gulp in a breath and get no respite. From the putrid fumes of smoke and smog in the city, we enter a world of toxic mist and poison. Yet it’s not dense, and it’s not fatal. Not here.
“Where are we?” I ask.
Zander answers by way of leading me to the edge of the little wood, where the city lights glow in the far distance. As always, the High Tower shines brightest, but this time there’s a pool of light beneath it. Red and orange and occasionally blue; the paradoxically beautiful palette of war.
Then I look the other way, and see the shadows of buildings not too far off. Skeletons mostly, but dominated by the spiral of the church that marks the HQ of the rebels.
“We’re home,” says Zander.
There’s no need to creep any longer. We jog out into the night, crossing fields peppered with ruins and stumps of old trees, until we reach the back of the church in that little ancient town.
Working around to the front, Zander performs the secret knock and the door cracks open. The guard called Burton opens up. Given his position as gatekeeper, I assume he’s an elite hybrid too.
Like Cromwell, the Nameless probably have several of their finest guarding Lady Orlando.
The interior is buzzing. People chatter and move from place to place. There’s a mixture of what appears to be battle-hardened warriors and the older luminaries and advisors who serve the rebels. I assume the former work as the latters’ bodyguards.
Through a door to the right, one I haven’t yet seen open, I notice a bank of communication consoles and high tech security feeds. Several technicians sit in seats as others rush about, trying to manage things out in the city. These are the people tasked with watching the streets from back here, those who work with Kira and her team to allow the Nameless to operate in secret in Outer Haven.
Their job has changed. Now it appears that they’re passing updates from the various sentry posts around the city, keeping the commanders here updated on the various battles being fought.
It’s all hectic, an utter madhouse. And among it, trying to help where he can, I see Adryan.
We catch eyes, and I’m drawn right towards him, some magnetic force sucking away the gap between us until we’re in each other’s arms.
“I was so worried,” he calls into my ear over the din. “When it all happened out there, you were the first person I thought of. The only person…”
He pulls away and kisses me. It feels more real, more desperate, than any we’ve shared. A primal urge that engulfs us both in the middle of that room.
It’s only broken when Zander’s voice filters into my ears, breaking the spell and us apart.
“Brie, I need to speak with Lady Orlando,” he says.
“I’m coming too.”
I feel my hand slipping from Adryan’s, but a smile warms my face. He melts into the rushing torrent of bodies as Zander pulls me away and towards the stage at the back and the door beyond.
We pile through it and reach the next. There’s no time to knock.
He opens the second door and I hear more voices. Two of them.
Ahead of us, huddled over her own private communicator that she used to talk with Adryan when he lived in Inner Haven, she speaks calmly down the line. The measured nature of her voice is a far cry from just about every other voice I’ve heard for the last few hours.
The other voice on the line is similar. I immediate
ly identify it as belonging to Commander Burns. Lady Orlando doesn’t appear to notice us enter at first. She continues the conversation for several seconds before our movement draws her eyes.
They blink a few times as they fall on us, brother and sister standing side by side. We must look a rather macabre picture dressed and armed as we are, stinking of battle and blood.
She waves us in and we shut the door. I hear the tail end of the conversation.
“You have to move now, Cornelia,” comes Burns’ tinny voice. He’s speaking in hushed tones, as if he’s afraid of being discovered.
“We cannot. Not until the last minute. We need more protection for the people,” she replies.
“You have no choice. Artemis is pouring his Con-Cops into the northern quarter. Your men will be overrun. He doesn’t care about losing them. He has thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, in reserve.”
“And you, Leyton? What control do you have? Can you not stem the flow? You’re the Commander of the City Guard are you not?”
There’s a bite to her words. A frustration.
“You know Artemis, Cornelia. He’s taken all control for himself at this time. He supersedes me and there’s nothing I can do. And in any case, the Con-Cops aren’t under my remit.”
“And the City Guard?”
“Many are being called into service. But he’s using them sparingly. He’ll use up the Con-Cops before he’ll risk too many City Guards and Stalkers. He’s too clever for that.”
“That’s what happening,” comes Zander’s voice. “The Stalkers and City Guards are working on the tunnels, but the streets are flooding with Con-Cops. He’s using them as distractions to engage our men.”
“Yes,” comes Burns’ voice again. “Who is that?”
“It’s Zander,” says Lady Orlando. “Brie has also just entered the room.”
“Brie…” says Burns. “It’s good to hear you’re safe.”
“Thank you, Commander,” cracks my voice.
“Now Leyton, you see the catch 22 we’re in. We’re trying to stem the flow out there but are running thin on men. And now we’re having to form an escort party for the people to get them to the mines…”